


since feeling is first

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_Angel)



Series: sonnetverse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Its 12k of porn, John and Sherlock have a lot of sex and talk about their feelings, M/M, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Some more Fluff, That's it, Unilock, a bit of angst, enjoy, military kink if you squint, this is the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-12 09:56:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7098007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_Angel/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“I don’t know how to do it without you,” Sherlock whispers into the darkness. He sounds bewildered. A little panicked. John never wants to let go of him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Me neither,” John replies, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and because it’s true. He kisses Sherlock instead, and he tastes him, kisses him for so long that they’re breathing in the same air.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> John keeps a secret from Sherlock. Sherlock's response is...not what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this mainly because I haven't gotten down to writing my other fics in ages, since I had a lot of real life, adult things that I had to organise first. Anyway, I'll be getting back to my WIPs as soon as I can, and I might write a few more ficlets for the Sonnetverse.
> 
> Meanwhile, enjoy this utterly plotless offering of porn.

John is coming downstairs, having finally finished doing the laundry (which Sherlock is never going to do, of course), but unfortunately unable to find a missing sock. He doesn't want to ask Sherlock about it, because then Sherlock will start listing the advantages of keeping a sock index, and after hearing that for four times it gets rather repetitive. Still. If his sock has been sacrificed to some dark purpose only Sherlock knows about, he'd like to be privy to it.  He finds him next to the cold fireplace, something in his hand. Letter, probably. John hopes it isn't bills. “Sherlock, where—“

John stops short of the sentence, frozen still by the look in Sherlock’s eyes when he turns around. John can’t figure out at first why Sherlock is looking at him like that, he never looks at him like that, not even in their worst moments. He looks…miserable. Heartbroken. Disappointed.

He holds up an envelope. Creamy coloured paper, good quality stuff. Stamped with a familiar sigil. Ah. John's heart leaps into his mouth. 

“You’ve got mail,” Sherlock says quietly.

He bends down and places the envelope carefully on the coffee table.

John doesn’t know what to say. A thousand responses crawl up his throat but die before he can form them. He just stands there, the blood pounding in his ears, panic slowly flooding his system. He feels a bit dizzy. Shit. 

“Sherlock-“ he finally croaks. But Sherlock isn’t even looking at him. He doesn’t even look particularly angry, just..lost. Bewildered. Sherlock lifts his hands helplessly in a universal gesture that John recognizes. Why?

“Why- why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, after what seems like an age. He gestures to the envelope. “You- did this. Without telling me. I- I thought- I would never have stopped you, John. I-“ he shakes his head in disbelief. John takes a step towards him, desperate to make this alright again, to make Sherlock _understand-_ but Sherlock takes a step back, shaking his head harder. Something in John’s chest curls up and dies.

“Sherlock, please listen—“ that stupid sodding coffee table is between them. John briefly considers picking it up and throwing it out the window. 

“No,” Sherlock says, throwing the word at him like it’s something filthy. John flinches. His mouth is turned down in an ugly scowl, eyes bright. “You don’t trust me. You think- what did you think? That I’d force you to stay? Is this why you had to _lie_ to me?”

“I never—“

Sherlock laughs. A harsh, sarcastic sound that makes John's insides curl in on themselves. "Omission of a fact then," he spits, lashing his words at him like they’re pieces of glass, aiming to cut and hurt. “Infinitely worse. You didn’t think that I deserved to know? After all these years? Have I still not earned your trust, John? Am I so volatile, so _immature,_ that I wouldn’t be able to handle a decision like this?”

“Sherlock, please—“ he tries again, but Sherlock is on a roll.

“What happened to  _I don't want to join the army, Sherlock?_ We've spoken about this- countless times, I may remind you- I kept asking and asking and _asking,_ because I never wanted you to feel like you shouldn't do what you'd like, and you kept saying no, and now- ”

"I never thought, I just- I didn't think this far, I swear, Sherlock-"

“And now what? You’ll waltz off in month or two, without giving me any time to—to adjust to—“ to John’s horror, Sherlock’s voice cracks. He moves towards him, as if to hold him, but Sherlock’s snarl is enough to make him retreat.

“Spare me,” he snaps.

Sherlock turns around, towards the door, lithe, graceful movements; he takes his coat off the peg. John aches to touch, to soothe, to explain- but Sherlock is already shrugging into his coat and opening the door.

Panic fills John’s stomach, jagged and sharp. “Sherlock, wait—“ he says, reaching for him.

Sherlock shuts the door loudly. John can hear his footfalls on the steps, hard and bitter.

John sighs, a hard lump in his throat. Everything seems slightly off balance, as if Sherlock’s outburst had just shifted everything from it’s rightful place. The world is bending in all the wrong directions.

God, he’s mucked this up spectacularly, hasn’t he?

The envelope still lies on the table, inconspicuous and slightly ominous. John walks towards the table, pick it up, brushes his name printed on the paper with shaking fingers, across the RAMC seal. 

 _I got in,_ he thinks. Even the voice inside his head is hushed, full of awe. He carefully slits open the envelope with his fingers to take out the crisp sheet of paper folded inside. He reads it twice, thrice, legs giving away so he lands on the sofa in a lump.

Then Sherlock’s face flashes before his eyes, miserable and furious, and he places the letter underneath the skull instead. This is ridiculous, it’s not even—it’s _his_ decision, isn’t it? But John knows that isn’t even the point, Sherlock is angry because- well, of course this is something that he should have spoken to him about, but fuck, he’s so stupid. He hadn’t really thought this far, to be honest, hadn’t even considered that he’d get in. And now what? He doesn’t even want to think about the actual things he’ll have to do now, he'll have to meet his recruiting officer soon— all he can think about is Sherlock’s disappointed face and bitter words.

He picks up his phone.

_7:49_

_To: Sherlock_

_Sherlock, come home. Can we please talk about this?_

_8:05_

_To: Sherlock_

_At least tell me where you are_

_8:40_

_To: Sherlock_

_I’m getting a bit worried here._

_9:05_

_To: Sherlock_

_Sherlock I’m so sorry. Please let me explain it to you._

_9:10_

_To: Sherlock_

_I’m going to call Mycroft, I’m serious_

_9:12_

_To: Sherlock_

_Alright that might have been a bit out of line. But come home, please._

Each of his texts is met with stony silence. He wonders if Sherlock is even reading the messages at all, or just deleting them as when they come. Maybe the threat of Mycroft was a step too far. But sod it. He needs Sherlock to come home.

John makes himself endless cups of tea and drinks none of it, instead choosing to let it grow cold on the kitchen table. Then he throws it away and resumes making another cup. The familiar process gives his hands something to do, and his mind something else to concentrate on besides Sherlock and how much he’s hurt him.

He didn’t do it intentionally, he never really thought—

Stupid excuse.

***

By the time Sherlock comes home, it’s past midnight. John’s sitting in his armchair, staring moodily into the fire. He looks up when he hears the door click shut. In spite of everything, John feels the relief flood his system, warm and glowing. At least he’s home.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything as he walks in, cheeks cold from the air outside and hair an absolute mess. “Hi,” John says carefully, but Sherlock doesn’t reply. He walks towards the coffee table, rummages inside his coat and places a champagne bottle on the table. There is a distinct scent of cigarette smoke hovering around him, but John doesn’t say anything about it.

“Bit confused,” John says, and Sherlock rolls his eyes, shrugging out of his coat and throwing it on his armchair.

John reaches for the bottle. It’s chilled, expensive, something he can only imagine Sherlock drinking. He’d never go for anything this posh.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” He’s stepped into the kitchen now, movements followed by the clink of glass and the thud of their cabinet being shut. Sherlock comes back into the sitting room, holding two flutes (probably the only ones they have) and places them next to the champagne.

“Getting a bit scary now,” John observes.

“Shut up,” Sherlock replies mildly, and sits down on the floor, cross legged. His eyes are a little red rimmed, his face paler than usual.

“Sherlock, I can—“

He holds up a hand, effectively silencing him. “I think—“ he swallows. Licks his lips. “I think we should celebrate.”

“For…what?” John asks stupidly.

“Your recruitment into the army.”

“But—“

“And I also…want to apologise.” Sherlock shifts his gaze from where It’s fixed on the champagne bottle so that he meets John’s eyes. “John, I—I overreacted, and for that, I am sorry.”

“No, no, no,” John says, and because he’s been aching to touch Sherlock ever since their argument, he slides down to the floor and sits as close to Sherlock as possible, their knees touching. He reaches for Sherlock’s hands. The skin is cold. “I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell you when I should have and I’m sorry.”

Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes. “It’s not my decision to make, and I understand that.”

“Of course it is. It’s my decision, yeah, sure, but it’s yours too. What we do—any of us, we affect the other person, right? What’s mine is yours…all that.”

Sherlock reaches for the champagne, and then the two flutes, and places them on the floor with them.“We should put this champagne to good use, then.”

“Sherlock.”

“Mmm?” he shakes the bottle, and the fizz starts swirling around in the deep green glass.

“Stop, stop,” he grabs the bottle, pulls it gently out of Sherlock’s hands. Puts it away. “Listen,” he says, reaching for Sherlock’s hands again. John doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, only rubs some warmth back into them. He went out in this weather without any gloves, what an idiot.

Sherlock is looking at him with an expression that John can’t read, something impossibly sad and impossibly fond at the same time.

“John,” he says softly.

“What?”

“This is what you want, yes?”

John doesn’t know what to say. Does he want it? Of course he does. Does he want it at the expanse of Sherlock feeling desperately lonely because of him? No. He shakes his head, avoiding the answer completely.

“John, stop thinking about me,” he orders, his hands squeezing John’s. The firelight casts shadows across Sherlock’s face, making his silver eyes shine. “And your sister, and your mother, and whatever consequences your decision might have. Just-just tell me this. Do you want it?”

“You’re such a genius, you deduced this years ago.”

Sherlock’s lips twitch.“I did.”

“Then why are you asking me?”

“Because I want you to say it,” Sherlock explains patiently, rubbing circles onto John’s knuckles. “John, the only criteria here is your happiness. Will this make you happy?”

“It will,” John answers desperately. “Fuck, Sherlock, I’ve wanted this—for so long. I thought med school would make me happy, and I’m happy, I _am—_ I’ve got you, and that should be enough for me, but I—“

“Shhh,” Sherlock places a finger against his mouth. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“But you said—“

“That was years ago, John. We were young, and stupid. Well, not stupid, not me at least—“

“Wanker.”

\--“my _point_ being,” Sherlock shifts closer to him, cups one side of his face. “that you should do what makes you happy, even if it doesn’t make everyone around you happy.”

“You’re not--?”

“God, no, how could you possibly think that? Anything that takes me away from you is a decidedly evil thing. I love you, John, and in an ideal world I’d keep you by my side forever, but even I know that reality doesn’t work that way,” he shrugs. “But the good that comes out of all this is your happiness, and to me, that is more precious that my own selfish desires. Do you see now?”

“I don’t think I deserve you,” John says helplessly, and Sherlock smiles at him, the kind of smile that only John gets to see; soft and sweet and fond. It makes him look even younger, hints at that side of Sherlock that adores all the sentimental, romantic rot. John wants to kiss him very badly, but Sherlock is concentrating on shaking the bottle.

The fizz swirls, the cork pops out, and Sherlock is pouring frothy, fizzing champagne into two flutes and handing one to John.

“You can kiss me later,” Sherlock says, with that uncanny ability of his to read his mind. He holds up his glass. “Come, let’s make a toast.”

John clinks his glass with Sherlock’s. “To what?”

“To you, obviously. Honestly, John,” Sherlock huffs.

“This isn’t a particularly polite toast, is it?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock says, without any heat, and takes a dainty sip of his champagne. John chugs his down like the peasant he is, but it’s delicious and he can’t help it.

“You’re not supposed to have it like that,” Sherlock points out.

“Come here,” John says, and stretches out his legs. Sherlock complies, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and climbs into John’s lap. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

“Hmm, you do keep telling me that,” Sherlock says, accompanied by a sardonic eyebrow wiggle. His cheeks still flush with heat.

“I _am_ sorry, though,” John says as sincerely as he can, and Sherlock only smiles.

John finally kisses him then, and Sherlock tastes delicious. Like champagne and winter and a little bit of cigarette smoke ( _god, he needs to stop)_ and his own unique, precious scent. It’s a lazy, indulgent kiss, as if to say, _we have all the time in the world,_ which John knows they don’t, but Sherlock is warm and pliant in his arms, soft lips against his and eyes closed in pleasure, and John feels like they’re in their own little bubble, somewhere even Time can’t touch.

John curls his fingers into the hair at Sherlock nape and tilts his head. Sherlock sighs into his mouth, hands against John’s chest. Then his fingers curl into the material and he’s pulling John back, back, until he’s on top of him and Sherlock’s back is against the floor.

“Tight fit,” John says against his mouth, sucking his plump bottom lip.

“Easily remedied,” Sherlock stretches out one long leg from underneath John and somehow pushes the table away. It makes a reluctant screeching sound and Sherlock pushes it until it topples over. A few books scatter to the ground.

“We should just keep it in front of the sofa, we need this area for sex,” John recommends, and Sherlock says, “You’re right. I love it when you say smart things, John,” and wraps his legs around John’s waist. He must have taken his shoes off at some time because now he feels Sherlock’s socked feet run down his arse.

John can feel Sherlock’s erection rubbing against his own, from underneath those bloody custom made, designer jeans he has on. He turns to Sherlock’s pale, lovely neck and sucks hard around his pulse point. Sherlock moans, fingers clawing at John’s back.

“Can you answer a question for me?” John asks, stroking through Sherlock’s hair. His cheeks are high with colour, lips bruised from John’s kisses. He’s the loveliest sight John has ever seen, and is it worth it, leaving him behind and setting off?

“I’m certainly physically capable of answering questions, John,” Sherlock says tartly, and John rolls his eyes.

“Will you?” he corrects.

Sherlock smiles. “Yes.”

“Do you want me to go?”

His smile fades, and his expression flickers for a moment, as if he is trying to school his features into something else. “John, my opinion is hardly relevant,” he answers, finally, voice low.

“You know, if you—if you tell me you want me to stay, I will.” John kisses him underneath his ear.

Sherlock sighs, half in pleasure. His hand finds the back of John’s head and it stays there for a while. “I know.”

“John, I tend to be selfish and possessive about what I believe is mine,” he says, carefully and slowly, as if he is choosing each word. “I—I would like nothing better than for you to stay, but as I’ve said before, this will make you happy, ergo I will be happy as well. You should do what you like, John, even if it means leaving me behind. And besides, it’s not as if you’ll be gone forever.”

John stays silent, thinking about how there will be no guarantees this time, no Sherlock to watch his back, to keep an eye on him.

“No, John,” Sherlock snaps, pulling him up by hair so that they can face each other. It stings a bit, but John doesn’t care. “You can’t think like that. I forbid you to.”

“Of course. Of course. Sorry, I just—“

“Don’t be ridiculous. Now shut up and kiss me.”

John does so, and kisses him slowly, taking his time to worship each inch of that soft mouth. Sherlock moans quietly around his tongue, rocking his hips against John with each swipe of his tongue. Dexterous, long fingers reach between them and he reaches for the hem of John’s T-shirt, tugs it up, and John helps him pull it off of his head.

“Mmm,” Sherlock murmurs as John tugs at his zipper. The jeans are bloody tight and Sherlock laughs while John struggles to get them off Sherlock’s pale, coltish legs.

“They cost so much, they should at least be less skimpy about the amount of material they use,” John grouses, but finally manages to pull it off, and Sherlock’s cock strains up towards John’s crotch, half hard and leaking.

John bites down on his collarbone and wraps a hand around Sherlock. Sherlock gasps and arches up against him, fingers digging into John’s shoulder. “Jeans,” he instructs John. “Off. Get it all off.”

“Bossy,” John says fondly, but obeys, shucking off his own jeans before reaching for Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock catches his wrist, smiles mischievously, and then rolls them both around until he’s on top of John, settling himself against John’s hips. John grins up at him, running his hands down Sherlock’s thighs.

“Thirsty,” Sherlock says, and picks up the bottle of champagne. He raises it to his lips, and drinks, making far too many indecent noises while he’s at it. It’s just a fucking bottle. There’s nothing remotely sexy about it. But Sherlock is practically felating it and John knows, deep in his heart, that Sherlock has single handedly created a Pavlovian response and he has a feeling he’ll never be able to look at a champagne bottle the same way again.

He finally brings it down and smiles crookedly at John, wiping his mouth with the back of his head. The entire time he is rolling his hips gently forward and back, drawing little gasps from John and making his cock rise up flat against his belly. John grabs Sherlock’s hips to encourage this grinding effort, and Sherlock is almost half-lidded with pleasure. John reaches for the button on his shirt that he’s closest to and Sherlock helps with the others, unti he shrugs off his shirt and throws it somewhere behind him.

“Where’s the lube?” John asks, and Sherlock looks annoyed.

“Back in the bedroom,” he says, and jams his fingers into John’s mouth. “We’ll make do. Suck.”

It’s impossible that John could get any harder, but he feels as though he does. He closes his mouth around Sherlock’s slender fingers and does as he’s told. Sherlock’s eyes darken and his mouth parts, and John wants to draw it out, wants to suck on Sherlock’s fingers until he’s writhing and squirming, begging for John’s cock. Not that he’d have to beg. John would give him anything he wanted by this point.

Sherlock thrusts his fingers in deeper and John takes them as far as he can, closing his eyes and moaning around the digits. He can hear Sherlock’s breathing grow even more shaky and rushed, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“That’s enough, I think—“ he rasps, and pulls out, before reaching behind himself. The look on Sherlock’s face is pure bliss, and John would watch him fuck himself on his fingers forever. He’d do it himself, but this is even better- watching Sherlock take himself in deeper, his perfect, tight mouth dropping open and his eye lids fluttering. The red flush on his cheeks travels down his neck to his chest, his pale chest now slightly damp. John wraps a hand around Sherlock cock and he mewls, grinding his arse down against his fingers.

“Ah, John, fuck,” he groans, and John can see the movement of his arm, imagines what he must look like from behind, long fingers pulling in and out of his tight hole.

“Sherlock, please, oh god, you have to—“

“Yes. Yes,” Sherlock breathes, and removes his hand, fingers now shiny and sticky with spit and come. Sherlock balances himself on his thighs before he starts to sink down on John’s cock. He winces with discomfort because they haven’t used any proper lube, but John strokes his skin, murmuring encouragement.

“Oh, _ah, ah,_ ” Sherlock gasps, sinking down inch by inch, agonizingly slowly. John has to resist the temptation to slam him down and fuck right into him. But then Sherlock is completely seated, and John has to concentrate on something else to prevent himself from coming right there, Sherlock’s tight, wet heat around him.

“ _Fuck,”_ Sherlock curses, and rolls his hips, ever so slowly. John is panting hard, fingers probably creating bruises against Sherlock’s pale skin. “Fuck,” he says again, and now he is moving, up and down against John’s cock, but so slow, fuck, so slow. Sherlock always looks otherworldly like this- ethereal, like a creature that doesn’t even belong to this world. Like a fucking fallen angel, all corrupted with lust and want. He bites his lips until they’re red and Sherlock is a canopy of roses and cream- pale, pale skin streaked with the flush of sex. His hair is longer than it used to be, curling around his ears and against his neck, now damp and sticking to his temples.

His ears are closed, long lashes fanned against his cheekbones, and John tells him, “Open your eyes and look at me, god, Sherlock, you’ve got such pretty eyes,” and a whole lot of other romantic nonsense, but if Sherlock finds it distasteful, he doesn’t say anything. His eyes are silver and green and blue; the fire brings out colours that aren’t always there, and John takes the gift quite willingly. He can feel his plush arse against his thighs, cock leaking between them, and the sinuous roll of Sherlock’s hips. He can tell Sherlock is close, and he can’t fucking take it anymore. He grabs Sherlock tightly and rolls them over, knocking the breath out of him. Sherlock is flat on his back, eyes wide and panting hard. John kisses the shock right out of him, bites down hard on his lip.

He barely gives Sherlock any time before he plunges in again, and Sherlock gasps against his mouth. He pushes his knees up to his chest, spreads them apart. Sherlock takes the signal and wraps his legs around John’s back. “Oh god, oh fuck, John, John,” Sherlock chants as John fucks him. “Just—just like that, oh god.” John takes Sherlock’s wrists in his hand, pins them down to either side of his head.

Sherlock tilts his chin upward for a kiss and John obliges him, his tongue sliding in and roughly tasting Sherlock, mimicking the thrust of his hips into Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock moans and John lets go him to touch him, touch him everywhere, down his sides and over his ribs, back up to his chest to pinch his nipples, and god, he’s so beautiful, he could fuck him for hours, like this, I love you, Sherlock, I fucking adore you, and he realises he’s been saying all of this out loud because Sherlock gasps out, “I fucking adore you too.”

John wishes he could go deeper into Sherlock, not to fuck him, but to-to find that place in his chest, underneath his ribs, right underneath his heart and stay there, inside Sherlock, forever. Insane, he knows, fucking insane, but the depth of his feelings for Sherlock has no logic, it just _is._ An inevitable fact like that the waves of the sea, the pull of the moon; the earth revolves around the sun, John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes. There is no changing it, no fighting it.

“John, John, I’m close, I’m close—Sherlock babbles, and he is kissing every part of John he can reach, his nose, his mouth, his chin, his jaw, and John is saying something, he’s not sure what it is, only that they’re devastatingly sentimental and he wouldn’t ever say them out of bed.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you so much it hurts,” and that is how accurate he can get. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

“Yes, god, come in me, I want it, fuck, give it to me, John,” Sherlock says hoarsely.

And John comes spectacularly, his forehead against Sherlock’s, their sweat mingling with each other’s. John wonders if they’re really the same person at that moment, an extension of each other, because it quite feels like it- and he’s still coming, fuck. He reaches for Sherlock’s cock and gives it three quick pulls and Sherlock comes with a shout, covering himself and John with his come.

John collapses on top of him when it is over, and they’re both filthy, but he gathers Sherlock close and kisses him soundly. Sherlock is breathing hard, and he looks, quite wrecked. John wants to memorize him now, every line of his face, every tiny, fond smile he bestows upon John. Precious gifts, the whole lot of them, and John never wants to forget how lovely Sherlock looks when he smiles like that.

“I love you,” Sherlock tells him, wrapped around him like a vine. “I don’t say it enough. But you must know it’s true. I love you quite madly, John.”

“Even when I’m a horrible arse and forget to tell you extremely important things?”

“Even then.” Sherlock snuggles against him, his usual mode of sleeping, tangled with John until their position looks quite uncomfortable to anyone who would chance upon them.

“I’m cold,” Sherlock mutters.

“Let’s go to bed,” John suggests. Sherlock settles even more comfortably against John.

“Not quite yet. There’s a blanket on my chair, look, pull it down. Yes, that one. There is only _one,_ John, it shouldn’t be this difficult for you to comprehend.”

John ignores Sherlock’s jab, like he always does, and throws the comforter over both of them. It is quite cozy. John doesn’t feel like getting up either.

The fire is burning low, almost about to go out. Sherlock breathes deeply, his breath warm against John’s neck.

“Do you think anything will change?” Sherlock asks quietly.

John, who is almost half asleep, wakes up at Sherlock’s question. “No,” he says. “No, why should anything change?”

“We’ve never been apart like this, John. Not since…well, never.”

John turns over so he’s facing Sherlock. He takes his hand in his own. “Do you trust me?” he asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock responds immediately.

“Then you’ve got to trust me when I say that nothing will change. You’ll just appreciate it more when I wash your socks because when I’m gone you’ll have to do it all by yourself.”

Sherlock cracks a smile at that. “I shall miss you rather terribly, John.”

“I know. I’ll miss you too.”

John crushes him to his chest then, and Sherlock crushes him right back.

***

The night before John leaves, Sherlock is wrapped around him and John is buried deep inside of him. They rock against each other so slowly it’s like they’e barely moving at all. Sherlock’s breath is shaky and shallow, his fingers clutched in John’s hair.

They breathe in tandem.

“I don’t know how to do it without you,” Sherlock whispers into the darkness. He sounds bewildered. A little panicked. John never wants to let go of him.

“Me neither,” John replies, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and because it’s true. He kisses Sherlock instead, and he tastes him, kisses him for so long that they’re breathing in the same air.

“Come back in one piece,” Sherlock orders him fiercely. “Or I’ll kill you.”

“I promise,” John replies hoarsely against his neck. “I promise.”

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> _"So, how's the consulting business going? I was going to ask you. Did we even talk last night?"_
> 
>  
> 
> _"Not unless you count_ oh fuck, harder," _Sherlock replies smoothly, wiping crumbs from his mouth._

 

Sherlock thought that he would recognize John in a second; he envisioned the entire scene in front of his eyes, watched it unfold perfectly like a play, or those awful films that John is so partial to. After all, John is extraordinary. It shouldn’t take more than a second.

The man that Sherlock is looking for would be wearing an awful jumper and he would have messy, overlong hair. Grinning crookedly, eyes twinkling. Sherlock thought he'd see his John, the one he knew eight months ago. But no, John is the one who finds him, even when he's still fruitlessly craning his neck to look for his John, his best friend, his boyfriend, his favourite person in the world who he hasn't seen for _eight long horrible awful months_ and if he doesn't see him right now, Sherlock thinks, he will surely die-

_"_ Sherlock," someone touches him briefly on his shoulder, and Sherlock feels a shiver run down his spine when he turns around, because if nothing else, that's a voice he would never fail to recognize.

For a few long seconds, perhaps even a minute, Sherlock is frozen, unable to do anything except stare at John; cataloging every new thing about him that he can find; his sunburnt face, his bleached blonde hair, and most of all, the look in his eyes; they're still the same colour but there are new lines around them, a new frightening hardness to them that wasn't there before. John stands differently, his stance doesn't slacken and it seems as though he takes up much less space than he used to.

"Sherlock," John says again, and cups a hand around the side of his neck, and something inside Sherlock breaks.

"John," he chokes out, and he feels as though he is going to fall to his knees right here in this loud, bustling airport, and John seems to sense that, his own, his amazing, beautiful, dangerous John, and he opens his arms, and Sherlock falls into them, and this, at least, has not changed, the way they still fit perfectly, the way their bodies curve against each other in all the right spaces. Sherlock tries to remind himself to breathe, muffled as he is against John's shoulder, and he pulls in great, deep breaths, breaths full of John’s scent; and there is something of the desert sand and blood and gunpowder and fire in his sweat, in the darker, muskier undertone of his skin.

He doesn't know how long they stand like that, John's arm curved protectively around his waist and his own around John's shoulder, his face buried against his neck. He can't imagine letting go of him now, he still hasn't had his fill, feeling this, the warmth of John's body against his, the weight of him against his side, the familiar presence of John next to him. He misses it and even as he clutches John now, his physical presence a solid fact, his heart still aches.

"Hey, gorgeous," John whispers in his ear, softly, and there's something new in his voice that Sherlock can't quite put his finger on; but whatever it is, it makes something deep and dark unfurl in his belly, it runs down to the tips of his toes. "I've missed you."

Sherlock can't find his voice right now, so he only hugs John harder. 

"Please let me kiss you,” John says. “God, Sherlock, I haven’t kissed you in months.”

The feeling in his belly tightens, and Sherlock pulls away slowly and rests his forehead against John, eyes closed, breathing softly. "Well, get on with it then," he says, and he can feel John's smile, soft and warm and then John kisses him, and John _does_ kiss him like he's a drowning man. The first touch of his lips is sweet and soft but only for a second, because the press of John's mouth against his own lights something in Sherlock's own body and he gasps, opening his mouth wider to welcome John's tongue, fingers clawing themselves into the front of John's shirt.

_So long,_ he thinks, as John kisses him fiercely, _It's been so long._ It feels like a lifetime. It feels like forever.

"Home," Sherlock says raggedly against his mouth. "Let's go home, John, please."

"Yes. God, yes," John bites his lip just before letting go and then he laces their fingers together. Sherlock grasps his hand tightly in his own, and they fall into step perfectly. John is warm and comfortable beside him, John is _home._

***

The taxi drive home is far too bloody long and drives Sherlock mad, but they finally reach home. John is taking too much time counting out exact notes so Sherlock just tosses him whatever he has in his wallet (compensation for subjecting him to two men giving furtive hand jobs to each other in the backseat of his car) and drags John into the building.

They don't even make it up the stairs.

John grabs his wrist and pulls him backward, pushing him up against the wall of the foyer, pinning both wrists up beside his head, and Sherlock nearly comes right there from the sharp, predatory glint in John's eyes. He's never seen him look quite like that before. It sends a thrill of both fear and arousal down his spine. He knows John would never hurt him, never intentionally, but he knows this time with a distinct certainty that John _will_ push him, just to see how far he can go without breaking. And Sherlock _wants_ it. Wants to be shoved hard against the wall or pushed down to his knees, cheek pressed against wood while John fucks him hard. Bloody hell.

But most of all, right now, he wants this; John pressed up against him so close that only their clothes separate them, John pressing hot, quick kisses down his neck, saying, "I missed you, god, I missed you so much, you smell divine, I love you, Sherlock, fuck." John rocks against him frantically and Sherlock stretches his neck so the back of his head is against the wall and there is more skin for John to lick and suck and bite. He wants to curl his fingers into John’s short cropped hair- wants to touch him, taste him- but they will have time for that later. He presses forward, arches against John, rubs himself against him. The bones of his wrist grind against each other as he writhes against the wall.

They don’t make much noise, just heavy breathing and grunts, the rasping sound of their clothes brushing against each other.

" _John,_ " Sherlock moans quietly. " _Oh."_ John gathers both his wrists in one hand, tightly, to let his other hand slip lower from his back to his arse, squeezing him proprietarily through his trousers. _Mine,_ the touch clearly says. Sherlock rocks back against John, kissing him against his temple. _Yours._

"Oh god, we have to go upstairs," John says, the movement of his hips stilling for a second while he breathes hard against Sherlock's neck. "I'm so sorry, love, I just couldn't-"

Sherlock is too dazed, too overwhelmed by the hard pressure of John's hips pressing into his, the possessive grip he has on his wrists. He can feel sweat at the back of his neck, on his chest, his forehead, and he is almost painfully hard now. "Alright," he whispers.

"I love you," John says, by way of an apology, but Sherlock doesn't really want it, wouldn't mind being fucked here, right on the stairs, but John presses a quick kiss to his mouth and then lets go of his wrists, and kisses him there too, right on his pulse point, and Sherlock feels something warm and impossibly fond flood his bones.

They go upstairs and Sherlock fumbles with the key, partly because John is standing so close behind him with one hand curled around his waist and partly because he's so hard at this point he feels as though he will burst.

When they finally stumble inside, he wonders if John will want to stand there in the middle of their sitting room for a while and just _look,_ let Baker Street wrap around him and welcome him home, but John does nothing of the sort. His duffel bag falls to the floor and quick as lightening, his mouth finds Sherlock's again, sharp and hot and insistent and his hands are on hips, pushing him back, back, back, roughly jerking Sherlock out of his coat, until he can feel the dining room table nudge against his backside.

He thinks fleetingly of their bedroom, but the thought vanishes as soon as John bites down, hard, on his neck. Sherlock gasps, fingers digging into John's shoulder, and then John hooks his arms beneath Sherlock's arse and picks him up, depositing him right on the table. Something ( a beaker, probably) falls to the floor and smashes in a dozen pieces. There is no talk-- Sherlock toes off his shoes and John attacks his belt, pushing trousers and pants down until they hang around his ankles and Sherlock slips them off with a twist of his feet. He reaches for John’s jacket, pushes it off his shoulders. John kisses him again, sloppy and wet and a little bit painful, but _good,_ perfect. Together they make quick work of John's zipper and once his jeans are around his thighs Sherlock wraps his legs around his waist, pulls him closer, gasps when their cocks touch.

" _Fuck,_ " John hisses, laces their fingers together and keeps them pinned on the table. He scrapes his teeth on Sherlock's jaw, rolling his hips against him in a fast, haphazard rhythm. Sherlock moans into John's ear, bites it maybe, once or twice, when John gives a particular _thrust, oh,_ that's divine, John, fuck.

John doesn't say anything, and they don't need to, they both need this, more than getting off, it's the closeness, the smell of John's sweat in his nostrils, the feel of his arse against his thighs, this _he's here, he's home, he's alive, I love him._ John let's go of his wrists and cradles Sherlock's face in both hands, angling it so he can kiss him deeply. Sherlock kisses him until he's lost to sensation, can only pant and lazily lick into John's mouth. John kisses him tenderly, lovingly, rutting against Sherlock until they're both coming, clutching each other tight. Sherlock groans deeply, says, " _John,_ " once, before he collapses against John's shoulder, panting.

John kisses him softly, sweetly, underneath his jaw before asking him, "Anything corrosive in that beaker then?"

"Leave it, we'll clean it up later," Sherlock mutters, holding on tighter to John. He can feel John’s ribs against his knee; hard and unyielding. John was never pudgy, years of rugby training made him quite fit- but this, this is all hard muscle, Sherlock can _feel_ it, and his mouth waters. They’ve just come together but Sherlock wants him again, spread eagled on their bed so that he can map every inch of his new, hardened body and kiss his new scars.

"Hmm. Wanna see what else I can do?" John asks.

"Hmm?" Sherlock responds lazily, nosing John’s neck.

John chuckles again, says, "Hold on tight."

He pulls Sherlock off the table but Sherlock's feet never touch the ground. John has both his arms under Sherlock's arse, and is smiling crookedly up at him as he carries him down the hall. Sherlock holds tighter onto his shoulders and wraps his legs more securely around his waist. He raises an eyebrow.

"Sure you won't break your back?"

"Shut up," John says fondly, and kisses a damp collarbone. "You're lighter. Why are you lighter?"

"You're not around to keep me fed," Sherlock reminds him.

They finally reach the bedroom and John drops Sherlock unceremoniously onto the bed. He makes to turn around but Sherlock catches his wrist and tugs him down. It isn’t enough force to disbalance him but John comes willingly, falling right on top of Sherlock, pinning him to the bed with his weight, laughing.

There’s only a dim lamp lit in the room, so most of John’s face is in shadow. Still, Sherlock can see it clearly, and he looks at him again, feeling as though he hasn’t seen him properly yet. John’s eyes soften as Sherlock continues his scrutiny, the hardness falling away a bit as Sherlock runs his finger tips down the side of his face. There is a hard lump in his throat that he finds extremely difficult to swallow.

“What’s this?” he asks quietly, brushing a finger against a scar on his eyebrow. It is still pink, still healing.

“Just a cut,” John says, and takes Sherlock’s hand in his own, kisses each finger tip.

“A knife,” Sherlock says, and John’s lips curve into a smile. “He came close to you, would have sliced right down your face, but you disarmed him. The knife was sharp. Rusted. It would have turned into an infection, had he reached his target. Not-not good.” Sherlock swallows.

“But he missed, and I’m fine,” John says softly, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, almost petting him. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed. “I’m fine, and I’m here, with you.”

Sherlock reaches for him, grabs him by the back of his neck and smashes their mouths together. John tries to slow him down, but Sherlock will have none of it. The kiss is hard and bruising, teeth clacking against each other as Sherlock buries himself deeper in John’s mouth.

“Fuck me,” he says fiercely. “Remind me.”

“Remind you of what?” John asks, gasping, fingers digging painfully into Sherlock’s naked hips.

“That you’re here. With me,” Sherlock reaches down between them and wraps a hand around John’s erection, the flesh already rigid and hot.

“Fuck,” John croaks against Sherlock’s mouth, rolling his hips into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock squeezes softly, and John makes a broken, choked noise and presses his hot, feverish mouth against Sherlock’s neck.

“Get this _off,_ ” Sherlock says roughly, reaching for the hem of John’s jumper, tugging it upward. John helps him with it and together they somehow manage to pull it over his head. Sherlock is confronted with another shirt. He makes a frustrated groan, but John only laughs at him, kisses his cheekbone.

“Why are you so obsessed with _layers_?” Sherlock demands, and he attacks the buttons. He is concentrating so hard on getting John out of his shirt that he barely notices John carefully taking his wrists into his hands, stilling his movements.

“Sherlock,” he says. “Slow down.”

“I don’t want to _slow—“_

“Sherlock, I—I haven’t been with you, not like this, in months, and I want to savour it, okay?” He swallows. Sherlock follows the skittish bob of his Adam’s apple. Licks his lips. “Please?”

Sherlock takes a long, shaky breath. His wrists go limp in John’s hand. “Okay.”

John smiles, breathtakingly gorgeous, and Sherlock doesn’t think it’s _fair,_ how much he wants John, how much he’s always wanted him. Nobody must have wanted someone like this before, as if their heart will burst from the strain of it.

John kisses him right underneath his jaw, his breath warm as it ghosts over his sternum. He reaches for Sherlock’s shirt, fingers quick and dexterous, slipping them out of their holes effortlessly. His hips shift restlessly against Sherlock, and Sherlock bucks upward, soft, bitten off moans escaping his mouth.

“Just a little faster,” he begs. “ _Please._ ” He is completely naked, although John is more or less still half dressed, shirt unbuttoned till his stomach and jeans unzipped.

John runs his hands down Sherlock’s sides, skin warm, his touch gentle. His hand makes its path upward again, brushing against a nipple which makes Sherlock gasp a little, and then he smears his thumb across his bottom lip. Sherlock immediately takes the finger into his mouth, swiping his thumb across the rough callous that is now there. His mouth waters, thinking of John’s hand wrapping around his gun, the frequent use which has made his skin rough.

John groans, pushing his thumb deeper into Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock closes his eyes and sucks and _tastes._ One hand is cupped underneath his arse, squeezing and kneading the plump flesh. Sherlock bites down on John’s thumb and John smirks, taking it out and instead tangling fingers into Sherlock’s hair, tugging roughly backward. Sherlock’s neck is probably a map of red and purple bruises, light now, but they will blossom and darken later. His cock twitches. He does love it when John leaves marks on his skin.

“Lube?” John commands in his ear, and Sherlock gestures towards the nightstand. “Same place.”

“Hmm,” John rumbles, like a satisfied cat, and still holding Sherlock in place, reaches for the drawer. The bottle is still there, it was quite full when John had left, now only half-empty. John lets go of his hair to straddle his hips, cock jutting out in front of him, leaking pre come all over Sherlock’s stomach.

He raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. “You’ve been using this.” He remarks.

“Only-only on myself,” Sherlock’s face floods with heat. He licks his lips. John’s smirk widens, eyes going impossibly darker.

“Oh I know,” John says, sounding quite smug. Sherlock wants to roll around in his smugness. It’s adorable and a little frightening. “Tell me what you did.”

“W-what?” Sherlock asks, breath coming quicker as John slips off, grabs his ankles and wraps them around his waist. The first prod of his fingers is cold and slippery, and makes his his hips cant upwards, against empty air.

“How did you use it?” John asks, slowly slipping a finger in. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, mouth hanging open.

“I-I-“ Sherlock struggles for words. What did John ask him, again? He can’t remember. John is working in another finger now, twisting them _just so,_ oh- there it is, oh god.

“Hmmm?” John prods, brushing his prostate over and over again. Sherlock fingers are curled tightly around he sheets, hips sore from their relentless rocking.

“F-fucked myself,” he manages to gasp. “With-with my fingers. I- _ah-_ thought of you- _fuck, John-_ ah, fucking me. Like that. B-but I couldn’t get off properly, n-not like that, I— _oh god, right there_ —“

“Like this?” John asks, pulling his fingers in and out, faster, in a rhythm that is reminiscent of fucking. “Or harder?”

“I couldn’t-couldn’t do it hard enough, or-or long enough to-to,” Sherlock gasps, back arching upward. John crooks his fingers.

“Long enough to?”

“T-to c-come,” Sherlock chokes, and then John is climbing on top of him, kissing him hard, on the mouth, swallowing his moans. Sherlock grasps his shoulders and wraps his legs around John’s waist, opening his mouth wider.

“You’re so fucking hot,” John tells him, nipping at his jaw. His cock nudges Sherlock’s arshole. Sherlock bites his lips, screwing his eyes shut, tries to push against John’s prick.

John slides in, slowly, groaning with relief against Sherlock’s ear and he slips in deeper. Sherlock sucks in a hard breath, nails digging into John’s skin, an involuntary moan leaving his mouth. It sounds like more of a sob.

John enters him in one slow, easy, glide, and Sherlock can’t describe the feeling, of being full after being empty for so long. Gaps and spaces in his body, between his fingers, everywhere, everywhere. John is inside him and it’s like being complete again, a black and white picture filling with colour.

It feels perfect. It feels _right._

They are still for a few seconds, Sherlock still taking low, deep breaths, John panting in his ear. Sherlock slips his hands higher to rest at the back of John’s head, pushes him closer, smears their lips together.

“Move,” he commands. “Fuck me.”

John… _growls._ There’s no other word for it. The sound a wolf makes before it devours its prey. Or not. It’s possible Sherlock might be projecting. John takes his lower lip between his teeth, tugs, and pulls out a bit before sliding back in. Sherlock’s cock is leaking copiously between them. John moves in and out, slowly, before his hips pick up a rhythm. Deep, but not rough.

“John, harder, please, f-fuck,” Sherlock begs shakily. “Please.”

He can _feel_ John’s cock pulse inside of him in response to Sherlock’s begging. Sherlock digs his heels into John’s back, tries to take him in deeper. “Please, please, please,” he repeats, until John is fucking him in earnest, quick, sharp thrusts that hit right home.

“Oh-oh-oh,” Sherlock can’t string any more words together, any more pornographic sentences to get John to fuck him harder. He can actually see spots in his vision now, only aware of John moving inside him, hard and fast and _real._ John whispers some romantic nonsense in his ear, and Sherlock can’t even understands all the words, but it fills him with something warm and tender all the same, something he can’t find a name for. Love, his brain supplies uselessly, but that’s a flimsy word, a cardboard word.

John takes his hands, laces their fingers together and pulls them over his head. Sherlock is pinned down by his weight, unable to do anything except lay there and _take it._

“So beautiful, fuck,” John groans, hips loosing their rhythm, moving haphazardly, and frantically. He’s close, Sherlock can feel it. He whimpers as John hits his prostate again, pressing himself closer to John, as close as he can go, can feel their sweat mingling.

“Ah, oh god, John, _please,”_ he pleads and pleads, and finally John releases his wrists and wraps a hand around his cock. Sherlock makes a choked off, harsh noise, almost like a cry, and John jerks him off quickly, fucking him so hard that the only sounds that fall from Sherlock’s lips are soft _nngh, nngh, nngh,_ noises. Sherlock’s nails dig into the skin of John’s back, and John is biting his collarbone, saying, “Fuck, I’m going to—Christ, Sherlock, gorgeous, fuck, you’re gorgeous.” Sherlock comes before him though, throwing his head back against the bed. “ _John, fuck,”_ he says, and fills John’s hand.

John gives four more quick thrusts, shallower, but rougher, and then he can feel the slick, hot wetness fill him up. Sherlock wants it, wants every drop of John inside of him, wants to be plugged full of him. He rocks slowly against John, riding out the last wave, moaning softly in his ear. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” John continues to whisper against his skin, and Sherlock’s heart beats rapidly against his chest.

A knot inside of him loosens. His mind goes quiet. Blank. He sighs, runs his palm down John’s damp back.

John is heavy on top of him, and the weight is slightly uncomfortable, but Sherlock feels perfect. He wants to feel this always, full of John, plastered to his skin, breathing him in. Marked and bruised by his teeth and tongue, a crime scene dedicated to John Watson.

John has other plans. Practicality is annoying.

He shifts a little upward so he can slip out of Sherlock. He winces, but only a bit, and then John rolls off of him to the other side of the bed. _His_ side of the bed. The hard lump in his throat is back again.

Sherlock curls around him, fitting himself against John’s body. John takes him willingly, fingers stroking his hair. They are both sticky and disgusting, John probably more so, not having taken a shower yet, but right now, Sherlock doesn’t want him to move. Will it always be like this? Not being able to let go of him for even a second? Harder each time he has to say goodbye, again, and again, and again?

They don’t say anything, falling softly into silence. Sherlock buries his face in the crook of John’s shoulder, his favourite place to be. John breathes quietly, and Sherlock maps the rise and fall of his chest. Afghanistan seems like a dream now, in their bedroom, surrounded by the low din of traffic that floats in from the street below. Sherlock’s framed Periodic Table catches the reflection of streetlights from outside.

Sherlock stays quiet, and so does John, until he leans over and says, “Let’s take a bath, I’m filthy.”

***

So they do take a bath, and Sherlock takes ages fingering and prodding and licking every inch of John. There is a scar along his ribcage, a bruise on his left pectoral that he hadn’t noticed before, more mottled over his back. Most of them are scabs, drying, but some of them are still pink. The reddish furrows Sherlock made with his fingernails while they fucked gets lost in them. The skin is tanned and rougher, and it wraps more tightly around his bones. But Sherlock felt it earlier, anyway, when they were in bed- the hardness of muscle in his biceps, around his middle. Sherlock’s cock fills out while he’s on his knees, sucking a bruise onto John’s hipbone, while the hot water cascades around them. It will turn cold, soon.

The tiles hurt his knees, like they always do, but Sherlock still wraps his lips around John’s cock, swallows him down and sucks and licks until John is gasping and fucking his throat and his fingers pull and tug at his hair mercilessly.

He could do this forever, he thinks, just to listen to the noises that John makes. To feel his thighs tremble around him and the warm, salty, bitter gush of John’s come filling his mouth. The endearments that fall out of John’s lips so effortlessly, even when they’re not fucking. _Love, beautiful, sweetheart, amazing, brilliant._ If one were to believe John, Sherlock was perfect. But both of them know it isn’t true, he is mean and selfish and a great big prat when he doesn’t get what he wants, but John loves him, and that means something, at least.

The water _does_ turn cold soon, and they step out of the shower. John towels him dry, laughing when Sherlock shakes his hair like a wet dog, showering him with droplets. It makes something inside his chest hurt now, when John laughs. Sherlock can’t figure out why, and it bothers him. John is laughing. He is happy. Ergo, he should be happy.

John continues to dry him off, until he reaches his prick and then it just turns into a slow, maddening hand job, with Sherlock’s naked back pressed up against the sink and John murmuring something into his collarbone while he brings him off. Then they have to get cleaned up all over again, of course. Sherlock doesn’t complain a bit.

“What’s the point of wearing clothes,” Sherlock comments dryly when he’s pulling on his pyjamas. “I’m quite sure you’re going to tear them off fairly soon.”

John grins wolfishly at him. No, not grins. John is _leering._ Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Charming, John, I see the army hasn’t taught you any manners.”

“What, I can’t have a good ogle at my boyfriend?” he asks. “My darling. My sweetheart. The love of my life?” He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist. He smells clean and warm, his skin soft and his hair smelling like something spicy. Sherlock can’t put his finger on it.

He looks imperiously down at John. “We’ve had sex four times since we’ve walked in that door,” He points out.

“Care to have a go again?”

“Didn’t I suck you off a few minutes ago?,” Sherlock says, voice low and amused, and kisses his nose. John looks smug. The look is entirely unacceptable. It does things to Sherlock. He pushes him off. Now John looks affronted.

“Come to bed,” Sherlock says, yawning and stretching, climbing under the covers.

“Ah, we’ve had sex. So you’re tired,” John observes, slipping in next to him.

“Excellently deduced, Captain Watson,” Sherlock rumbles, plastering his back to John front. John’s arms come around him, his lips near his ear. He kisses him softly.

“Not a captain yet, love,” he reminds him.

Sherlock shrugs. “You will be, soon. What difference does it make?”

John sighs against his neck, nuzzling him. “I missed this. You.”

Sherlock stretches. “What did you miss?” he whispers.

“Everything. But mostly this. Being in bed with you, next to you, holding you like this,” he smirks, Sherlock can feel it. “And you deducing me. I was telling my mates about it one evening, how you could look at a person and recite their whole life story, and I got so fucking hard I had to excuse myself and have a wank.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock murmurs, feeling drowsy. Sleep pulls at his eyes. He can hear John flicking off the lamp, and settling against him again. Can feel him snuffle at his hair, breathe him in.

Sherlock thinks of yin and yang, honey on toast, jagged edges that fit perfectly together. John’s lips ghost against his neck.

He sleeps.

***

John barely sleeps for a few hours before his eyes snap open. For a few horrifying seconds he can’t tell where he is. The room is dark, and he lays still for a few more seconds before he registers the sounds around him. The hushed rustle of wind, pit-pat, pit-pat. Rain. Someone is next to him. On top of him, more like. Sleeping. John listens to the sound of their breathing. Measured, calm. Fast asleep.

_Sherlock._

Relief floods his system. along with a healthy dose of fear. If he hadn’t come to his senses, he doesn’t know what he would have done to Sherlock. Nothing really dangerous, perhaps, just a habit born out of instinct; push him off, shove him down on the bed with a hand on his throat. He wouldn’t hurt him permanently, but he’d frighten him. Lose his trust. Guilt settles like lead in his stomach. He lifts his hand gently to cup the top of Sherlock’s head. His curls are soft, fragrant; the scent of his poncy shampoo fills his nostrils and John wishes he could bottle it up, the smell of him, and take it back; just a little bit of home surrounded by so much blood and danger and pain.

Sherlock stirs slightly, makes a soft noise that sounds like a very comfortable cat. John wonders if it’ll ever stop hurting, just a little, when he looks at Sherlock when he’s asleep. Usually he’s so… _much,_ like a thunderstorm, all flashes of lightening and incessant rain. But when he closes his eyes…he’s quiet, and he finally looks his age. John knows he looks older already, there’s a look in his eyes that most twenty-somethings don’t have, and it frightens people. Not Sherlock, though. He saw a flash of something across Sherlock’s face when he saw him after so long, but it wasn’t fear. Excitement, maybe.

John realises he’s practically petting Sherlock now- running his fingers through his thick hair. He really should get a haircut, he thinks, brushing the dark strands between his fingers. It looks black from a distance, but really it’s a lovely, dark shade of brown, auburn and golden in the sun. John can’t help it, he kisses the top of his head. Sherlock stirs again, makes that satisfied-cat-noise, and his breathing changes. Ah, he’s awake. John’s woken him. Crap, he barely sleeps enough as it is, and now John’s disturbed even that.

Sherlock turns his head so his chin is resting on John’s shoulder. His eyes are silvery lights in the dark room. He blinks sleepily at him.

“Did you have a bad dream?” Sherlock slurs. God, he’s fucking adorable when he’s half asleep.

“No, no,” John hastens to reassure him. “Go back to sleep.”

“’sokay,” Sherlock settles a bit more comfortably against him. “’m awake now.”

“No, you’re not, go back to sleep.”

“You couldn’t sleep,” he points out. “Should I—d’you want me to play?”

Vowels and consonants mesh together, and Sherlock’s mouth barely forms the words. He rubs his eyes. “I could play.”

“No, it’s alright, Sherlock. Come on, close your eyes, go back to sleep.”

Sherlock shakes his head, and them budges up until he’s on his own pillow instead of John’s chest. He shifts upward, head on his palm, so he’s looking down at John. “You sleep. I’ll look at you.”

“Not creepy at all,” John says mildly, brushing his fingers idly across Sherlock’s stubbly cheek. His hair curls prettily over his ears.

“You don’t sleep for more than four hours at a stretch,” Sherlock informs him. His voice is still soft from sleep but his words are steady, sure. “The bed is too soft. And it’s too quiet. Your surroundings are unfamiliar, and your body is uncomfortable. Do you want to sleep on the floor? We could sleep on the floor.”

John wants to do many things. John wants to grab Sherlock by his long, poncy hair hair and kiss him until he can’t breathe and they’re both gasping for air like two drowning men. He wants to crush him to his chest and tell him that he’s never allowed to leave, not ever. These feelings are dangerous and John should be frightened of how dependent they are on each other, but there is a rightness about it, too. He can’t imagine having Sherlock any other way. He already has each line of Sherlock’s face memorised but each time he comes back it feels like there’s something he hasn’t appreciated enough, something he’s forgotten to etch into his brain, and it hurts, it hurts like a bitch.

“You’re becoming maudlin again,” Sherlock says softly, sinking down and lying half on top of him again. His breath is warm and sweet, and Sherlock kisses him lightly. “I’m right here, John.” His tongue traces the seam of John’s lip.

John mmms, curling his fingers into the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock settles more comfortably on top of him, kisses him sweetly, softly, down his jaw, pressing his mouth against John’e neck, carefully nipping his collarbone.

“You’re here,” John agrees, and his fingers tighten in Sherlock’s hair, as if he is anchoring Sherlock to him. But they are already anchored, anchored a long time ago, in fact. An inevitable string that ties them together in the deepest, most primal of ways. Sentimental, foolish thoughts. Sherlock would scoff and laugh. But he would still believe it, John knows.

Sherlock is kissing his sternum now, fingers brushing over the skin over his waistline. John arches against him, hardness pressing into Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock grinds back down, moans softly. He slides up him again, like a seductive snake, and whispers in his ear, “Do you want to see if I’m still wet from when you fucked me? I think I am.”

“Oh God,” John groans.

***

John is making breakfast when Sherlock finally decides to emerge from their bedroom. John was up hours before him, having had a pretty good sleep after Sherlock rode him hard in the middle of the night. Jesus, how many times _did_ they have sex last night? John’s lost count.

Sherlock barely says anything, just collapses against John’s back.

“Good morning,” John says, turning around for a kiss. Sherlock is too lazy to kiss him properly, merely presses their mouth together. He tastes like toothpaste.

“I want food,” Sherlock orders him, and tugs on an earlobe with his teeth.

“Mm, I’m getting there, darling.”

“Food,” Sherlock reminds him, as if John hasn’t heard the first time. Sex always did give him an appetite.

Sherlock yawns enormously and then collapses into a chair in the kitchen. Sherlock hadn’t actually cleaned up the mess they’d made last night, because of course John was expected to do it. There are still a few beakers on the table, his microscope. He keeps telling him to shift his experiments upstairs but _does he listen._

John moves aside a jar of formaldehyde with some sort of…whatever that is…floating in it and places a plate of pancakes in front of Sherlock. He wonders if Sherlock will ever start sitting the right way up in furniture; perhaps not. He prefers to _lounge_ in it, for lack of a better word. He finds a chair he likes and then he simply pours himself into it. Right now he’s shifting a bit, with a rather uncomfortable expression on his face.

_Ah._

_“_ Sore?” John asks, can’t help smirking a little bit. Sherlock gives him a withering look.

His hair is standing up at the back of his head and John brushes some of it back from his forehead, can’t help placing a kiss there. He hasn’t even bothered to get dressed properly; merely thrown on his ridiculously expensive dressing gown. It barely preserves his modesty; and doesn’t hide the trail of red marks down his neck, his shoulder, and a few across his chest. Christ. The sash is tied rather precariously, one swift tug and the whole ensemble would fall apart. John loves that dressing gown. It’s probably as close he’ll get to seeing Sherlock in lingerie. Which…actually isn’t a bad idea. Sheesh. Eight months in the army and John will fuck Sherlock if he’s wearing a potato sack, to be honest.

“Mmm,” Sherlock says, and starts shoveling food into his mouth. Not a particularly attractive sight, but John’s a romantic. He still looks adorable, to him. “Tea,” Sherlock orders again, and John nudges his own mug towards Sherlock. Perhaps the git hasn’t even noticed that he’s already finished his own tea.

When he’s done (it barely takes him a few minutes) Sherlock takes John’s mug and drinks from it. He makes a face.

“Oh, right,” John grins. “See, that’s _my_ mug. You finished yours.”

“This is abhorrent,” Sherlock scowls. “How do you manage having it without sugar? It’s a _mutation.”_ He slams the mug back on the table and slides it over to John.

 

"So how's the consulting business going? I was going to ask you. Did we even talk last night?"

"Not unless you count _oh fuck, harder,"_ Sherlock replies smoothly, wiping crumbs from his mouth. 

John grins at him. “So, what about it?”

“It’s mostly angry husbands and angry wives at the moment,” Sherlock says distastefully. “I think I’ll put up a warning on the website. Sometimes a brilliant one comes up, though. Like last week there was a murder, and _oh,_ John you should have been there. One clean nick at this woman’s throat, inside a locked room, no murder weapon to be found. Quite simple, really, if you had all the facts—which I did…”

John listens to him, loosing track of the words sometimes, Sherlock does use some awfully big ones—but it’s so amazing listening to him talk about it—about something that makes him so clearly happy.

“And Lestrade’s gotten promoted, you know. He’s a DI now. He called last week itself, had a burglary and couldn’t get his hands on the suspect. Frightfully easy, but there you go. I don’t see _why_ he’s been promoted, but then, I suppose he’s competent in his own way. Then there was this old lady who’s lost her family jewels. Not particularly interesting, but I was _awfully_ bored. She paid me six thousand pounds for it, and gave me some sort of watch, a small fortune in itself.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Looks like we won’t have to worry about money for a while, then.”

Sherlock scrunches up his nose in disgust. “I don’t do it for the money, John.”

“Yeah, I know, but if you keep doing it for free we won’t be able to pay the rent. Mrs. Hudson’s a nice lady and all, but I don’t think she’ll let us stay on for free.”

“Yoo hoo!”

“Speaking of…” 

“Good morning boys,” Mrs Hudson says, walking in. “You left your door open. Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all, Mrs. H. How are you? How’s the hip?” John stands up to greet her.

“Oh, I’m fine, dear. Let me have a look at you. Well, don’t you look like a fine young army man! So glad you boys are seeing each other after such a long time.” She hugs John then, and John smiles, hugging her back.

“Although I must say,” she says, pulling away and picking up Sherlock’s empty plate to take it to the sink for a wash. “You boys could consider keeping it down a bit. At night, I mean. Of course I understand what it’s like to see each other after a long time, and of course- at your age—but I’m getting old and I _do_ need my sleep, dears, and the walls are quite thin, you know.”

John feels his entire face heat up. “Uh.”

“What can I say, Hudders,” Sherlock shrugs. “John’s a beast.”

John wants to throw something at him.

“Oh, yes, love, the army does that to you.” Mrs. Hudson scrubs the last of the crumbs from the plate and then takes John’s mug from his hand, starts washing it as well. “Oh, it’s so lovely to have my boys together again,” she smiles fondly at John. John smiles faintly back, still quite mortified to have Mrs. Hudson talking about their sex life. Jesus, maybe he should gag Sherlock the next time. Wait. No. Think about something else, fuck, fuck.

“So, what will you two do today? A nice murder perhaps, Sherlock? God knows you’ve been clawing at the walls when John wasn’t here. That would be a nice outing for the two of you! Maybe you should call that nice inspector from Scotland Yard. _Such_ a polite man, asks me about my hip every time he’s here.” She hums as she rinses out John’s mug.

“I hope you haven’t mentioned your herbal soothers,” Sherlock says under his breath, and opens the newspaper, disappearing behind it.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are loved, cared for, and sent to bed with both bread and broth. :^)

**Author's Note:**

> I also don't know shit about how you enroll into the Army and I've done only rudimentary research on the topic, (my aim was to write porn, you see.) so I've tried to steer clear of any technical terms. But if you find a mistake, please do let me know. 
> 
> Also, reviews are love.


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